


The Griffin

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to the caves outside Mechanicsburg, Ardsley Wooster stops for the night at an inn.  But when a man comes rushing in shouting about the "thing" that is attacking his horse, Mr Wooster's evening suddenly becomes rather more interesting than he had expected... or, for that matter, hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Griffin

When I was posted to the caves outside Mechanicsburg, I had, of course, to get there. I do not often talk of that, and there is a very good reason. When a person travels through hundreds of miles of constantly shifting war zone, for the most part on foot, things will happen to them that they generally prefer to forget as far as possible. But I will, I think, tell you about the evening I met Lieutenant Pepin.

It had been snowing hard all day, and the road, such as it was in these parts, had disappeared into a guess a long time ago. I had been trudging across open country for hours, fearing at any moment that I might be gunned down by some unseen sniper; out here, alone, I could be taken for anyone's enemy. Thankfully, I had had no trouble of that sort; but I had lost the road and was out of my way, and I must have already passed the village for which I had been aiming. I was wet, cold, ravenously hungry, and bone weary, and I had some time ago reached the stage where I was pushing on from nothing more than sheer will power and desperation. If no other option appeared, I could always build a shelter out of snow for the night; but I was not going to do that just yet. I wanted a roaring fire, a good meal and a warm bed, if they could possibly be had.

It was dark, and the blizzard was still swirling around me. Was it my imagination, or could I see a faint glow ahead of me, a little off to the left? I turned my steps towards it, and as I drew closer I saw that I had made no mistake. It was indeed a light; several lights, in fact, as they were the windows of a moderately large building. And – oh, joy and wonder! – there was a sign jutting out from the building, hanging in a wrought-iron frame. I could not yet see what was painted on the sign, but I had no need. This was an inn, and so I would get somewhere warm and dry to sleep for the night, even if it was only in the hayloft above the stables.

I was almost at the door before I was able to read the sign; it bore a painting of a fantastic winged animal, but both the gilding and the letters beneath the picture were worn and faded: “The Griffin.” Well, I thought, as I stamped the snow off my boots on the step, let us see if this Griffin is friendly. I expect it will at least not be hostile, since I am a paying customer, after all.

It was not a busy night; it looked as though most of the locals had wisely elected to stay at home. There was a group of about half a dozen people who were instantly recognisable as soldiers, plus a few other travellers like myself. However, there was one woman who stood out at once. She was at the bar when I came in, buying a glass of brandy; although she had the confidence and bearing of a military officer, her long pale golden hair fell in loose waves about her shoulders in a most unmilitary fashion, and there was something subtly wrong about the way her left trouser leg hung on her. When she went to sit down, I saw what it was. That leg did not bend, and when she stretched it out in front of her as she settled into her chair, the trouser leg collapsed over it and hung there, vertical and almost flat.

A wooden leg, then. At a good guess, she was an officer who had been invalided out of someone's army because there was no spark on hand who could make her a mechanical one. I felt a pang of sympathy for her.

“Come on in, young man!” The voice belonged to a jovial, bearded fellow in perhaps his late forties, clearly the landlord. “Here, you boys, make some room at the fire for our new guest; can't you see he's had a weary journey?” He turned to me as the soldiers scraped their chairs across the floor to make space. “Now, then. You'll be wanting something to drink and a good meal, I expect. And will it be a room for the night?”

“Oh, it will,” I assured him fervently. “Thank you.”

“My very great pleasure, sir. I'm afraid we're short on supplies at the moment, so I can't offer you any choice over the meal; but it'll be hot and there'll be plenty of it, that I can promise.”

“I quite understand,” I said. “It can't be easy, running an inn with everyone at war around you.”

He grinned. “Well, there are the shortages, sir, but other than that I don't do so badly. The Griffin is a neutral zone. Whoever they're fighting for, they all like my beer, and I'll sell it to any of 'em that has money.”

“A wise philosophy,” I replied. “I shall be delighted to sample it myself later; but, if you don't mind, I should prefer to wait till I have eaten. I'm not one to drink on an empty stomach. It tends to send me to sleep if I do.”

“Well, we wouldn't want you doing that before you'd enjoyed your meal, sir. You go and get yourself warm, and I'll see to your dinner.”

I went and stood by the fire until I felt warm enough to take off my overcoat, then went to a small table, hung the coat on one of the wall pegs nearby along with my hat and scarf, and settled comfortably into one of the two chairs drawn up to the table. Beer or no beer, I was almost ready to go to sleep where I sat, but there were some appetising smells emanating from the kitchen. I took a puzzle of linked metal rings from my pocket, and started playing with it to keep myself awake.

The landlord made very good on his promise. First to arrive was a bowl of stew, piping hot and fragrant with rosemary, accompanied by a good hunk of the local rye bread. Next came a huge slice of apple tart with a brandy sauce, and finally a pot of strong coffee. By the time I had finished, I felt warmed through, thoroughly restored, and, at least for the moment, at peace with the world. I thought perhaps I might go and introduce myself to the soldiers, who were now around the fire again swapping stories. After all, I had a few stories I could share myself.

The golden-haired officer rose to her feet, surprisingly elegantly for someone whose left leg would not bend, and walked back to the bar for another glass of brandy. Just as it was being brought to her, the door flew open and a man rushed in, hatless, dishevelled and covered in snow.

“My horse!” he shouted. “My horse! Someone, please, help!”

The landlord moved to intercept him. “All right, all right, steady, now, sir. What's happened?”

“There's a... there's a _thing_ out there attacking my horse!” replied the man, breathlessly. “And it's all I've got, that horse, and I'm trying to get somewhere safe, and the... the thing attacked, and the horse threw me, but I landed in the snow, I'm all right, but the horse...”

The officer had moved up to the landlord's side while the man was talking. “The horse is still being attacked?” she asked. She spoke German well enough, but with a strong French accent.

“Yes, miss,” he nodded.

“Lieutenant,” she corrected, gently. “And where? Near here?”

“Yes... Lieutenant. Just outside.”

“I'll help,” she said. Raising her voice, she asked, “Who's with me?”

I stood up. “I am,” I said. No matter how good a soldier she might be, she still had a wooden leg, and I was therefore not going to let her go up alone against some nameless creature capable of attacking a full-sized horse.

She looked at me, coolly, appraisingly. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I do not look like a soldier. I drew my gun. “I'm armed,” I added. “I can fight.”

“Good,” said the Lieutenant. “Anyone else?”

There was an embarrassed silence. I noticed the soldiers, in particular, studiously avoiding the Lieutenant's gaze. She drew her sword, and it glittered in the firelight.

“I'm glad there is one brave man here,” she said, to the room at large.

“Maybe it's not so much that he's brave as that he doesn't know what he's dealing with,” someone muttered.

“Yeah,” said someone else. “It'll be some kind of madboy monster, right enough.”

The Lieutenant ignored them both, and looked at me. “What's your name?”

“Wooster,” I replied. “Ardsley Wooster.”

“Then follow me, Mr Wooster. I am Lieutenant Felice Pepin.”

I followed her out into the swirling blizzard; a little way away, we could both see two dark shapes, one in the air just above the other. The one on the ground was clearly the horse. It was bucking, twisting and whinnying with terror, and as we drew closer we could see that it was trying to disengage the other creature's claws from its back. The great winged thing, whatever it was, was trying to lift the horse into the air, but it could not quite do so.

“Can you tell what it is?” I asked.

The Lieutenant shook her head. “I suspect it is, as our friend in the inn suggested, a madboy monster. But from the way it moves, I do not think it is mechanical.”

“No,” I agreed. “That makes me think it may be something belonging to Martellus von Blitzengaard. He has established himself not far from Mechanicsburg, and that may well be within the range of a flying creature. He is known to be adept at biological manipulation.”

She gave me a sideways look. “You seem to know a lot, Mr Wooster.”

“They say that knowledge is power, Lieutenant,” I replied, “but I prefer to think of it as survival. We need to get closer. I can't shoot from here without fear of hitting the horse.”

“I'll attack it from the front,” she decided. “That will give it something to think about. You go round to the side, and aim for the wings. If we can ground it, it'll give the horse a chance to get away, and we can fight it more easily.”

I nodded. “Good plan. If I'm aiming for the wings, I can't hurt the horse no matter how suddenly it bucks or rears. But I'm not going to move too far round. I need to be able to keep you covered at all times.”

“I can use this.” She indicated the sword.

“I'm quite sure you can; but we have no idea what it can do,” I pointed out. “If it suddenly starts breathing fire, for instance, you will probably want someone to shoot it through the head without worrying too much about the horse.”

She raised a golden eyebrow. “You've... worked with sparks, have you?”

“Indeed,” I replied.

“There's something about your tone of voice that says you could tell a few stories about that,” she observed. “Very well. I'll be... more cautious than I'd usually be.”

We split up, the Lieutenant approaching the pair directly, while I circled round a little way to the side. As soon as I was close enough to take aim, I did so; a beam of green light seared through the falling snow and struck the creature just under its upraised wing. It bellowed, whether in pain or mere surprise I could not tell; but my shot seemed to have no effect on its ability to move. I aimed a little higher the second time, and caught the wing.

That worked. It let out a scream of pain and rolled sideways out of the air; it might well have brought the horse down on its side, but for the fact that the Lieutenant had arrived and was slashing at its legs with her sword, ducking, weaving and occasionally parrying against its viciously sharp beak. Under the double attack, it loosed its grip on the horse, which tried to bolt. The Lieutenant caught its harness and said something to it. She must have been extraordinarily good with horses, because it stood still, though it was bleeding profusely and trembling with fear.

But the creature was on its feet and making straight for her, and she could not fight effectively while still calming a terrified horse. I was closer now, and could see exactly what it was; it was, of all things, a griffin. It was not very much like the one on the inn sign, which had, as far as one could tell from the faded paint, a fairly amiable aspect. This one was gold and black, heavily muscled, and furious.

Shooting at its body clearly had little or no effect. I aimed for the head. That, I think, must have really hurt, because it immediately swung round and charged at me. I was amazed at how fast it could move over thick snow. I took aim again, ready to land another bolt straight between its eyes. If that didn't stop it, we would be in some real trouble.

It did stop it... temporarily. It stood stunned for a few moments. As it did so, the Lieutenant caught up with it. She swung her sword at its neck, and it dodged just in time, turning its side to her; but before it could turn back to counterattack, she had sprung onto its back and was gripping the front of its wing with her left hand. She had to have been a cavalry officer; she knew how to control a horse, she could very much still fight, but... riding was awkward. She could no longer grip with her knees.

She was doing her best anyway. And her best, it had to be said, was impressive.

Now it was the griffin who bucked and reared, trying to rid itself of its unwanted rider. Fortunately, its left wing was the one I had hit, and it was too painful to fold it, so she was able to brace her wooden leg against it enough to keep herself from sliding backwards. I took full advantage of the situation by moving in as close as I could, and shooting whenever a potentially vulnerable point presented itself. That took several shots, and I was uncomfortably aware that I had only so much power left. The griffin was really not very vulnerable at all.

The sword abruptly flashed through the air, striking the side of the griffin's face. It roared and leapt into the air. The Lieutenant had got its right eye. She lost her grip and tumbled into the snow; she tried to scramble quickly to her feet, but the unbending wooden leg was making it difficult, and the griffin was already turning on her. I sprang forward, still shooting. All I had to do was distract it for long enough to let her stand up.

It charged at me again. I swerved to its blind side, but that, of course, meant I could not take a shot at its remaining eye. For a brief moment I considered taking a leaf out of the Lieutenant's book, but I decided against it. I can ride well enough, but not to cavalry standards. It swung round on me, roaring, and I aimed the gun straight down its throat.

There was a feeble pulse of green light, and then a little click. I had run out of power.

The Lieutenant could not have seen the gun from where she was, but she certainly saw my face, and that must have told her everything. By now she was on her feet again. I had my dagger out, but it was too short to be of much use for anything other than parrying against the griffin's razor-sharp beak; and if I stumbled, it would be of no avail at all against the claws.

She sprang at it with a yell, surprising it from its right. As it turned to meet this new threat, I saw my chance and seized it. I drove my dagger straight towards its one good eye. It roared and flailed wildly as the dagger found its mark.

“Grab its left front leg,” the Lieutenant shouted. “Raise it as high as you can. I'll do the same with the right.”

I immediately understood. It was the trick for killing a mad dog, if you happen to be attacked by one when you are unarmed: you raise its front legs above its head, and, although the shoulder joints will quite happily move in that way, the heart cannot take the strain. I had no idea whether or not it would work on a griffin, but there was nothing to be lost by trying, since it would be hard for it to attack us from that position. I did as she said.

It took all the strength we had between us. It twisted and wrenched, and tried to kick us with its rear claws; and, besides, it was so heavy that, even with much of the weight being borne on its back legs, it was still an effort to hold up its front end. But, after a little while, its struggles grew feebler; and soon it was still. We waited a little longer, just to make sure, and finally the Lieutenant nodded.

“I think it's safe to drop it,” she said. “Well fought, Mr Wooster.”

We dropped it, and the carcass fell with a thud into the snow. “You did remarkably well with the horse,” I observed.

“I was in the cavalry. We'd better get back to that. It'll need its wounds dressing. And a warm stable, and a blanket, and some hay and water.” She looked down at the body of the griffin. “Do you suppose that's edible? The landlord did say they were having a supply problem.”

“I'm not sure I'd like to have to find out,” I replied.

We walked back to where the horse was still waiting. The Lieutenant soothed it again, and we led it to the stables, where the Lieutenant issued a set of brisk instructions to one of the grooms and said she would be along a little later to check that they had been suitably carried out. This done, we hurried once more into the warmth and shelter of the inn.

By this time, the owner of the horse was calming his shattered nerves with a pint of good ale. The Lieutenant walked up to him. “Your horse is in the stables,” she informed him. “It's quite badly hurt, and you shouldn't try to ride for at least a few days; but it should be in no serious danger as long as my instructions have been properly followed.”

His eyes widened. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.

“And Mr Wooster,” she reminded him, indicating me. “He did as much as I did.”

“Thank you,” said the man. “Did you kill the thing, or just drive it away?”

“We killed it,” I replied. “We had to, in the end. It wasn't going to be driven off.”

The landlord approached. “Good work, you two,” he said. “Drinks are on the house for the rest of this evening.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied. “And I haven't yet sampled your famous ale, so I'll be very glad to do so now.”

Lieutenant Pepin smiled wryly. “I have already had as much brandy as is good for me, but after that horror I intend to have some more. Possibly a great deal more.”

“Then I hope you don't give yourself a headache tomorrow morning,” I replied.

“I doubt I shall. I'm used to it. Maybe a little too used to it. When you're a soldier, you see too many things that make you want to drink too much.” She paused. “And you're not a soldier. You don't move like one. Yet you fight like one, without a doubt. What are you?”

“A traveller who has to protect himself, and sometimes others,” I replied. “I'm going to Mechanicsburg. It's dangerous country.”

“And you are... I can't tell by your accent, but from your name, I should guess you are English?”

I nodded. “That's right.”

“H'mm,” she said. “Here we are at an inn in the middle of German-speaking territory, and when there is a threat, who responds? A Frenchwoman and an Englishman. What does that say, I wonder?”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” I replied, honestly. “I would put it more like this: here we are at an inn, and when there is a threat, who responds? Those who are armed and have experience of dealing with unknown dangers.”

She raised that eyebrow again. “I can tell you've had some very interesting travels, Mr Wooster.”

“More interesting than I like to think about,” I replied.

“Then tell me about the parts you don't mind thinking about,” she suggested. “Come and sit with me. If I have some company, I shall get less drunk than I otherwise might.”

“Certainly,” I replied, “but fair is fair. I don't want to do all the talking. I should like to hear some of your stories, too.”

So we talked for a while, and I sampled the local ale and found that it was indeed very good. The Lieutenant went to the stables at about nine o'clock to check on the horse, but other than that she drank brandy, told stories, and listened. She was drunk, but not too drunk, when I finally announced that I was tired and intended to go to bed.

“No, no,” she insisted. “Stay. You're good company.”

“It's kind of you to say so, Lieutenant, but I doubt I shall be if I am awake much longer,” I replied, with a smile. “I have had a long walk today, and I shall have another one tomorrow. Therefore, I must bid you goodnight.”

“Then we had better say goodbye now, because I am leaving at dawn tomorrow,” she said. “I have a longer journey than you; but I have a horse-drawn sledge, so it will not be so arduous. I would offer to take you to Mechanicsburg, if I were going that way.”

“Safe journey,” I said.

“You too. I have enjoyed meeting you.”

When I came downstairs the following morning, she was, of course, gone; but the landlord walked straight up to me with something in his hand. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “The Lieutenant asked me to give you this.”

I took it carefully. It was one of the griffin's claws, and it was so sharp I could have easily shaved with it. I stared at it, thinking of the work she must have had to do to get it; nobody knew better than I that the griffin's hide had been tough enough to resist a special-issue British Intelligence Service multigun on full beam power. And, on that note, I reminded myself to put a fresh cartridge in the gun before I left.

“She took one for herself too, of course,” he added. “And one for me as a souvenir. Don't know what I'm going to do with it. Maybe I'll get it framed and put it up on display. It's not every inn that's got a griffin claw on the wall.”

“I know what I'll do with mine,” I said. “I'm going to make a knife of it.”

“Good idea, sir. Very practical, if I might say. Now, what will you have for breakfast? I've got some Bierwurst, some fresh new-laid eggs, and there's also mushrooms today. Or you could have roast griffin, of course, sir.”

I shuddered. “I think I'll stick with scrambled eggs and toast, if I may. Perhaps with some mushrooms?”

“Certainly, sir. Just my little joke.”

“Normally, if I have to kill an animal, I'll eat it if I can,” I explained. “It's a waste, otherwise. But I'm not at all sure it's wise to eat a construct made from totally different types of animal. There's no way of knowing what its creator had to do with its biology to get the parts to function together.”

“Understood, sir. To be honest with you, I'm not sure we could hack any meat off it in any case.”

“Quite so,” I agreed.

I went to sit down at a table near the window, where I could look out over the snowfields. By my reckoning, I was about fifty miles from Mechanicsburg now. Without the snow, I could have covered that in two days, at a push; with things as they were, it could well take four or five. Still, I had survived so far.

The griffin claw looked different in daylight. Last night, the claws had just looked black, but here by the window I could see the glossy sheen. It looked like a piece of obsidian, but it was lighter and definitely tougher. Unlike obsidian, this would not shatter if I chanced to drop it.

The man with the horse came down to breakfast while I was waiting. He stopped to greet me. “Good morning, sir,” he said, politely.

“Good morning,” I replied. “I trust you slept well?”

“Much better for knowing the horse is going to make it, sir,” he said. “I don't know what I'd have done without you. And the Lieutenant.”

“She's gone now,” I said. “She told me last night that she was leaving at dawn.”

“Brave woman, her,” he observed. “Did you notice she had a wooden leg?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I hope, wherever she's going, she can get a mechanical one to replace it.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes... but... if I'd realised she had a wooden leg, I'd never have let her fight.”

I grinned at him. “And how exactly,” I enquired, “do you think you would have stopped her?”


End file.
